Ragnarockin'
by RedSkyNight
Summary: It's time to get serious. El Presidente gets positively executive.


**Summary:** It's time to get serious. El Presidente gets positively _dangerous_.

_**A/N:**_ _What the Limit break should have been called, and how it could be possible, you know, with the rope flung down by God and/or Chuck Norris and all. _

_Spoilers if you don't know about Squall and Laguna, which I hope you do by this point. Otherwise about half my stories are out for you, and Duodecim may not be as squee-worthy for you._

_And sorry for lying about when I would release this..exams caught up with me._

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><p><em><strong>Ragnarockin'<strong>_

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><p>It's like something goes <em>snippety-snappity <em>inside his head, and he can hear the rushing sound of the planes that will bomb the hell out of whatever location he points to on the map that's next to the big red button he's allowed to press whenever he feels like starting a war...In that room he's got _24-7_ guards stationed and that's locked with a key he gave to Kiros to hide. And the back-up key he gave Ward.

And it all starts out like this:

Zidane is jumping everywhere, off of towers, out from holes in the ground, absolutely speedy and not a little bit desperate to avoid the barrage of spells and bullets that are raining down from what seems like every corner, pillar and space. The place is slick, prickly and deadly like an ornery cactuar in the desert, and he can't help but wish he was in the latter scenario.

It's a veritable mine here, and Laguna's doing his fair bit of jumping and weaving until he finds a perfectly intact pillar that looks like it could handle a bit more pain and pressure before it collapses like all its brothers. It's like_ BOOM-boom-DOWN_ with_ crackle-crickle-pop_ mixed in there, somewhere, between when the shrapnel rockets off and everyone gets hit with a shockwave a second later. But it still stands, so it's enough.

He can hear Bartz shouting, probably something a little bit damning and a little bit frustrated, despite the bubbly life he wears and lives, war does things to people. And he doesn't begrudge him for it-Laguna thinks he warrants it, warrants the hell out of it, because this is not going to be allowed to continue, or else Warrior of Light is going to have to find himself with four less warriors to solemnly _shiny-whoo!-sparkle_ at.

And from how Sky's (Foggy? Cloudy? Nimbus?) been mumbling in that rainy-cloud voice of his, the rest of the remaining warriors may not be enough to spread the sparkle out without some pointed remarks being made.

He's alone, seated behind a pillar, praying to the faeries for some luck and maybe some appearance of Guardian Forces he's pretty sure he hasn't junctioned lately, or even seen...or even known existed 'till a voice in his head told him so. He's gotten pretty used to this sort of situation, where magic and reality tend to collide with no pity for a person's sanity, and so he's pretty much assured that nothing big can phase him. He must still be sane to think this is all pretty cool and insane, after all.

But, anyway, Laguna'd like that voice back now, _please_, faeries, even if the owner sounds like a too serious grump who could use a girlfriend. Or like Squall, which cancels out everything said before this, because a father shouldn't say that about his son—even if its sometimes too true. Or not. Because said father can't seem to get close enough without being pricked by the blades of hundred swords and/or glares. Or one gunblade. And so the story goes...

Squally-boy's-_could you believe it? Raine left him a son!_—dashing every corner of their pocket of the world, slashing and combo-ing the hell out of what _mankeys_ (manikins? monkeys? munchkins?) that are at the edges of the deadly group behind them. He's like a black flash, in and out, ignoring spells, flinging them back with a back hand and shooting some of his own out like a twirling-halo of bullets when he gets close enough. And then he makes his blade vertical and slams the figures down like a jackhammer. Squally-boy's an utter beast here, in his element, and Laguna would like to feed whatever it is SEED are raised on to his own troops. Squall owns this arena, this sort of life. Last he saw, Galbadia was still looking a little feisty.

If only Squall'd been around when Adel was running about, then that would have been pretty damn awesome.

An emerald munchkin tries to sneak in behind him, a whirring, indignant little puff of feathers and cape, but Laguna throws a grenade behind him like it's no one's business, and that's the end of that. The next second, fifty more try their hand at knocking him down, and the situations not at all that easy. He only has two pairs of hands and one functioning mouth (if a little bit dirty from a few close calls)-what's he supposed to do?-change into his favorite flip-flops and start pulling pins with his toes?

He engages them, trying to not have so much fun tearing into the crystal-figures who look too much like his friends to be comfortable, and lets his bombs fly, his gun laser, and his mouth let cool catchphrases until he find one that sticks. He needs a new one after he found out that Squall thought his last one (_Geronimo!_) was _moronic_. It stings, but he needs his approval like a fish needs the tiny bits of oxygen lodged in water, and so he tries and tries until he gets it right. It's a bit sad how hard he's trying, but he'd not try harder on anything else.

The thought running in his head, he turns his head to catch his favorite black blur glide off to another cluster of the munchkins, a glow about him. He wants to shout something out, a dad-like encouragement, a piece of praise, and he takes a breath-

And then his son falls.

And all Laguna can think is:

_no-_

There's some red,_ red_, _**red**_ on black.

_SQUALL-_

There's too much of it.

_what-_

He's not dodging spells anymore.

_no-_

The gunblade, silver-blue light falls to the ground with a clatter.

_can't-_

Zidane's trying to twist his way through the growing crowd to no effect.

_no-_

Bartz is tossing some of Firion's weapons in support, and then every other he has ever mimicked in his arsenal.

_no-_

He is too far away to make a difference.

_not-_

To get there before it is too late.

_no-_

He's watching—_his son die_—before he can even get to-

_stop-_

—until he realizes he's shouting it, screaming it out loud with a passion he didn't know he had left in him with less than half a single cartridge of ammo left, and his section of the field surrounded by a group of the munchkins that certainly number more than the bullets he has left.

And it's like something goes _snippety-snappity _inside his head, and then suddenly, it's not just in his head anymore. There is something building, something that gives everyone pause.

The manikins have paused in their relentless assault, glowing with stored summon energy, wondering how they should react. Bartz and Zidane are dealing with those who refuse to stop, but are likewise distracted by whatever it is that is coming. Because something is coming. Something big.

And Laguna likes it.

It feels familiar, whatever it is, because Laguna has a sense of these sort of things, having gotten used to summons from his days during the war, when they appeared at his beck and call despite having never sought them out before.

And being around Squall gives him a chilly, sharp feeling, of Shiva and something else coiled within his mind. The feeling is here, but closer now.

He isn't afraid of his son, and he won't be afraid of this.

And as its image edges through the sky, appearing in the blackness between the stars and then emerging out of it, he realizes he won't need to be. It's all metal and sharp and sleek, and he knows what he can do before it even gets itself into the lower atmosphere.

Guns are his thing, after all.

The _Ragnarok_ breaks through the sky, parting dimensions like the GARDENs the sea, and a rope falls from it to Laguna, who seizes it without a thought. His gun glows, and he feels like it's been reloaded, and he's ready for the massacre he's going to bring.

_/We have arrived. Location ascertained. Target determined./_

_/Bzzt...Mister President—are you prepared?/_ There's a buzzing sound in his head, like he's got a headset with a direct line to one of Esthar's-_his_- military bases, and he thinks the voice is a mish-mash of voices he's heard at least once, metallic-tinged from being underneath a helmets issued straight from the factory. He knows no one else can hear it.

But he doesn't really care.

There are plans, explosions from war and preparation spinning through his mind, experience and worry combining to communicate what he wants, what he needs. He may not be the unforgiving type, but he's not one to leave a wrong go unpunished.

And this is _his son_.

_/Operation Ragnarok Is a Go?/_

_/Mister President: Are You Ready?/_

And he really only has one answer to that.

"_GO-GO-RAGNAROCK!_"

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><p><em><strong>AN:**_ _I feel it's a bit rough, but trying out a goofy-but-cool Laguna thought process often results in this from me. No excuse I know._


End file.
